It's something that took me almost four months to figure out. Even now, Peyton is quiet and almost secretive. She doesn't share herself naturally, and there is very little that is more intrinsic to who she is than her art.

But she is fantastic. Where I prefer ink and charcoals, Pey likes watercolors and the camera.

The walls are a work of art. And a tribute to us. Pictures of me, on stage, smoking outside Keegans, blowing on my hands. One is in a field, and I remember when she took it. We had gone camping, just the two of us and a shitty little tent that we found out had a hole in it. I'm crouched next to a fire, and smiling at her.

I told her I loved her on that trip, after we got rained on and stumbled, cursing, through the storm. Thunder had been so loud, so fucking close, and she had stopped, tipped her head back, and twirled.

Fucking twirled in the rain, dancing in it like a child.

I fucked her in the field, thunder and rain all around us, her body running with water, and whispered those three little words while she shuddered and came.

There are more. Her in my bed, asleep. Us at Barrie’s, on New Year’s. Me and Scott singing. Us in a park and on our shitty couch, and the back of the truck, and a starscape.

Our whole fucking story is spread over the walls, in brilliant color and haunting black and white.

“Fish,” I murmur, and she makes a small noise.

“You like it?” she asks, her hands twisting together nervously, and I walk her backward, until she hits the wall and the picture of me grinning in the snow rattles. She gasps when I push against her, my dick rubbing at her through the layers of clothing.

“I love it,” I whisper against her ear. “I love you.”

She purrs, a soft noise of satisfaction and rolls her hips. Pleasure shoots through me, and I groan against her lips. “You know moving is exhausting as fuck, right?”

She nips at my lower lip, kisses me, and grins. Pulls back. “Go lay down,” she murmurs.

I arch an eyebrow and she smirks.

My shirt hits the floor and I toe off my shoes and shove down my shorts before I sprawl across the bed, propped on my elbows as I watch her.

She ties my ankles first, and I drop back, grinning.

Peyton loves games. She's sweet and proper outside our bedroom. She likes wearing her artistic edge in her clothing and the hair she cut recently, the gauges in her ears and nose piercing. But she's a sweet girl, for all that. Polite, and considerate.

But she's a demanding bitch in the bedroom. And she loves to play dominance games. It's not hardcore shit—neither of us have the bent for true D/S—but sex is a game. One mixed with pain and control and exhibition. It’s why she likes being loud when she knows Scott is home, why I can finger fuck her in a bar, or on a crowded city bus. It's hot as fuck, and I'm just kinky enough that I fucking fly on it.

She kisses me once when my hands are tied, and shoves a pillow under my head so I don't have to crane to see her.

Whatever game we're playing, she wants me to have a good view.

She strips slowly, a coy tease as she sways around the room, coming close for a kiss and brushing her bra-clad breast close to my lips before pulling away and shimmying out of her jean shorts.

She's naked and smooth and wet beneath them, and my dick jerks as I strain against the ties.

I'm not going anywhere.

It might all be a game, and I might love to play it, but I'm also not under any delusions about Peyton's seriousness when she comes to play.

"You’re tired, right, baby?" she coos, stretching out alongside me. Close, but not close enough. "So you relax. Watch."

My mouth goes dry as she leans her head against my shoulder, her hand dropping down to squeeze her tit. Her back arches a little, and her eyes go glassy as her fingers circle and circle, teasingly light before pinching a nipple and tugging, and her body goes bow-tight against me, her back arching as she moans. Her free hand is trailing down her belly, and I watch it with avid hunger as it smoothes over her soft stomach, the pale, freckled skin, down to her pretty pussy. She whimpers when she brushes her clit, and I swallow. "Does that feel good, sweetheart? Do you feel good?"

"So good," she groans, her fingers sliding along her folds. Her hips are moving, and I'm not sure she's even aware of it as she teases us both. "So wet."

"Show me," I demand, yanking at my ties. "Come here and let me lick that sweet pussy."

She laughs, and the noise turns choked and broken as she slides two fingers deep, her thumb pressed against her clit as she fucks herself. Her head is pressed against my shoulder, digging in, and I can smell her hair and sex. The sound of her fingers sliding in and out of her, the fucking sight of it as her moves become frantic, desperate, her hips churning against her fingers, and she screams, a long, low scream that echoes through our room as she comes.

She's so fucking perfect.

"Don't tease, baby. Let me fuck you."

She twists her head a little, smiling at me sleepily, and her body convulses as she slides her fingers free. Brings them up between us.

"Fucking hell, Peyton," I groan, watching her lick her fingers clean. I'm so hard it hurts, and she's laughing when she kisses me. Licking into her mouth, catching the taste of her on her lips, it's almost like going down on her.

"Thought you were tired," she whispers.

"If you don't fuck me, I swear to god, I will beat your ass red."

"Promise?" she breathes, and I groan.

Curse as she rolls to straddle me. My dick sliding into her wet heat will never be old. Will never be anything short of fucking amazing. I groan and rasp out, "Fuck me, perfect girl."

Her eyes flash and she moves, riding me hard, until I'm cursing and she's crying out with every move, her whole body tight above mine, and then I'm coming, and she screams, her body jerking against mine, clenching tight.

We fall asleep like that. Wrapped up in each other, sticky with sweat and sex and completely fucking in love. Convinced nothing could ever go wrong or change what we have.

Chapter 20 : After

Feet ache, pain so familiar

It is almost unfelt.

As she slips on tiptoes,

To a song she cannot sing,

Through eggshells and jagged edges.

And she never realized

The relief that could be found

In dancing through life to a tune

few could hear, in combat boots and

A smile.

(Rike’s poems to Peyton)

It takes almost a month for my parents to realize I’m in Nashville. Brody vanishes one Sunday afternoon, and comes back to his downtown, high-rise apartment with its black, modern furniture and clean lines, spitting mad in the way only our father was ever able to achieve.

He’s quietly furious, grabbing a beer from the fridge and tossing the cap while he stalks through the apartment. I’m curled in a corner of the couch, leafing through one of the sketchbooks Rike sent home with me, and I eye my baby brother while he paces.

Brody is the youngest of my three siblings, and the one I’ve always been closest to. He isn’t quite the black sheep that I have been, but where Cassidy went to law school and Sean joined Daddy’s campaign, Brody joined the Marines. He’s filled me in on everything I’ve missed with him, and I’m so proud of him. He’s made a good life in military intel, and if he ever chooses to leave, he can make a better life for himself as a civilian. And he did it without the help of our parents.